


Blackbirds Mate for Life

by deafpool (castielsass)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Idiots in Love, Look they're in love leave me alone, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Smut, my dark secret here is that i'm not english i'm irish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsass/pseuds/deafpool
Summary: Crowley wonders why people keep mistaking them for a married couple.





	1. Chapter 1

There just wasn’t a lot of eye-contact in hell, Crowley was only now realising. Six thousand years, and he was still discovering new quirks of the world. Eye contact was such a profoundly strange thing, both angels and demons seems to minimise it. But people, most people were so strange in their absolute insistence to try to look you in the eye. Aziraphale wasn’t so bad as most of them, but Crowley could still count on one hand[1] how many times he and Aziraphale had made prolonged, profound eye contact. Usually, at dinner, while discussing worrisome current events, at lunch, while scheming, and more frequently, whilst stunningly drunk.[2] 

However, they were none of the above currently, and so Crowley had some difficulty in explaining why exactly he and Aziraphale had been staring at each other, with what Crowley would have perhaps categorised as ‘fondness’, but any outsider would have called ‘remarkable idiocy”.

Aziraphale smiled, with genuine affection, and raised his cup slightly, as though to catch Crowley’s attention, an entirely unnecessary endeavour.

“Would you join me back at the shop, dear, for a little night cap?” Aziraphale offered, as though it wasn’t entirely expected.

Crowley lifted his shoulders in a sort of half-hearted shrug, the dying remains of an attempt at coolness.

“I don’t see why not,” Crowley said, as though he had ever turned down the offer. “I believe you’ll find a most enjoyable ‘61 Chateau Latour in your flat, when we get there.”

“I don’t have-” Aziraphale started, before a beatific smile lit up his face. “Oh, you,” Aziraphale said with a contented kind of affection in his voice that sounded more as though it was directed at a particularly talented puppy than a demonic entity.

Crowley smiled at him in response, before abruptly remembering they were in public, and replacing it with a frankly dismal attempt at a sneer.[3] However, the sneer was offset by Crowley automatically pushing his dessert plate - a neat little slice of apple crumble - toward Aziraphale, who happily dug in.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with either fashionably, or tragically thick glasses, appeared at Crowley’s elbow with the bill while Aziraphale delicately patted his mouth. Crowley tucked his shiny black card into the fold, and handed it back to her swiftly. She dropped it, picked it back up, apologised cheerfully and disappeared.

“Ready, angel?” Crowley asked, a few minutes later, and Aziraphale nodded, and stood, as the waitress flew back over to them, and flapped slightly in the manner of someone’s who’s just remembered something rather important.

“Oh, just a moment sir!” She said to Crowley, blocking his exit, while turning on her heel. “I’ll just grab your husband’s coat, and be right back!”

“I didn’t bring a coat!” said Aziraphale, to her retreating back. She returned abruptly, in a flurry of anxiety, with the air of someone who had been berated by upper management for forgetting such paltry concerns as returning customers’ items to them. She triumphantly shook out a cream-coloured linen jacket to Aziraphale.

“That isn’t mine, ma’am,” Aziraphale said.

“Yes it is,” the waitress said confidently.

“It… I’m afraid it rather isn’t,” said Aziraphale, with the confidence of a person who had worn the same outfit every day for nigh on two centuries. In response, the waitress simply shook the coat at him, as though he was a petulant child. Aziraphale looked at Crowley for aid, lifting both hands with hopelessness.

In Crowley, however he would find no aid, as Crowley appeared deeply, and entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.

Eventually, Aziraphale was able to convince the waitress he hadn’t actually brought a coat, and therefore she was not at all remiss in her duties by not furnishing him with one. Crowley stayed quite silent throughout it all, and they left the little diner together, escaping into the cool, pleasant evening air.

Aziraphale was complaining about something or other, and he paused for a moment, to allow Crowley to bicker back with him, but Crowley didn’t respond. Aziraphale frowned slightly, but continued. They stopped carefully on the edge of the path[4], and Crowley automatically extended his arm. Aziraphael took his elbow and they crossed the road. Abruptly, in the middle of the street, Crowley interjected into Aziraphale’s ramble.

“Why do people always think we’re married?”

“Us?” Aziraphale repeated uncertainly. He carefully dusted off the front of his vest and led Crowley - who had quite stopped walking - off the road.

“No, angel, me and that pigeon,” Crowley snapped, throwing his head in the direction of a fat, squat little bird who was pecking at the rind of an orange on the path.

“That’s a seagull,” Aziraphale said.[5]

“Whatever it is! That’s not the point!” Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale sighed, and unlocked the Bentley with a subtle wave.

“They’re wildly different birds,” Aziraphale stated[6], and pushed Crowley into the driver’s seat.

There was peaceful silence for a moment as Aziraphale crossed the front of the car, but as soon as he opened the passenger door, Crowley started again.

“I mean, just, what is it about us, angel?” Crowley demanded, jamming his key into the car with rather more force than was necessary and missing the keyhole by a great deal. The Bentley kindly ignored this and started up, anyway.

“I expect it’s just… rather the way we act,” Aziraphale said, automatically gripping the handle of the door as Crowley peeled off, with no regard for traffic. “Well, most married couples, you know, they exude a sort of ...energy.”

“Energy,” Crowley said, flatly. It was the only flat thing happening in the moment, as they rounded a corner with tremendous speed and the Bentley lifted clear up on two tires.

“An energy!” Aziraphale said impatiently. “Watch the road!”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, but reduced his speed by a fraction, anyway. “Go on, what sort of energy?”

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale said, waving one hand in an ineffable sort of way. “Just that people who have been together for a very long time, they become… comfortable with each other, they can - mind that cat! - just appear as two halves of one whole, you know.”

“I don’t like cats,” Crowley said, and flicked his forked tongue in the air in a rude gesture. The cat didn’t seem to mind.

“I suppose we’ve been tog- we’ve known each other for longer than any married people,” Crowley allowed. The radio flickered on and off, and Crowley hissed at it. It quieted down for a moment. “Maybe that’s it.”

“I’m sure it is, my dear,” Aziraphale said dismissively. He paused for a moment, and looked faintly worried. “Unless, of course, it bothers you?”

The radio abruptly burst into life, and Freddie Mercury got as far as:

_”Love of my life, don’t leave me-”_ before Crowley snarled at it and punched the off button.

“Bothered? Me?” Crowley let out a strange ‘pssh’ sort of noise, a shrugging kind of noise that was clearly meant to convey just how little anything could possibly bother him. Aziraphale laid his hand - soft and perfectly manicured - over Crowley’s, in an earnest way.

“My dear, if it b-” He began in a solemn tone, and Crowley yanked the steering wheel abruptly to the left and stopped the car.

“We’re here!” Crowley said unnecessarily. Aziraphale frowned at him, and Crowley felt a sick, faint sort of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

“Come inside,” Aziraphale ordered, and Crowley guiltily obeyed. They only made it to the back room of the bookshop before Aziraphale wheeled around on him and demanded:

“What on earth is wrong with you today?”

Crowley started, and Aziraphale cut across him, frowning.

“Does it truly bother you so very much, that people see me and … clock me as a certain kind of human, and make assumptions about you? Is that the issue?”

Crowley found himself thinking very hard about eye contact, for the second time today. Aziraphale’s eyes were very bright, and quite passionate, roused in the fire of his hurt. Crowley swallowed. Aziraphale stared at him, a questioning look on his face, and his eyes were very big and blue.

“Marriages are usually between two people, who are in love, and have sex and buy art and furniture together,” Crowley said, which hadn’t really been what he’d meant to say at all, and Aziraphale threw his hands outwards in a “Lord, give me strength” fashion.

“We buy art and furniture together,” Aziraphale pointed out, quite coldly. Crowley shook his head desperately and removed his sunglasses, tossing them onto a nearby shelf. They landed on top of a small white clock, and hooked themselves over it.

“That’s not the point-” Crowley snapped. His hands felt strangely heavy and he didn’t quite know what to do with them anymore. He tucked them across his chest, under his arms defensively, but Aziraphale was still yelling.

“- and not every married couple has sex, even!”

Crowley gestured in an expansive, vaguely apologetic way, and spoke as well, overlapping Aziraphale.

“-I know that,” he said. “But that’s not the point, in fact, none of it’s the point, the _point_ isn’t that people assume-”

“Married couples have two people in it who are in love with each other, _not just one-_ ” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley felt as though he’d been slapped. An abrupt sort of nausea began in his stomach, which was odd, as he hadn’t bothered to allow a stomach to exist previously.

“That was...unnecessary,” Crowley said, in a strangely flat voice, and Aziraphale stopped arguing, and turned a pale pink colour. Aziraphale wasn’t cruel, and this was perhaps the cruelest thing he had ever said, or done, Crowley supposed this was his demonic influence, and perhaps he should have been celebrating. Had they still been reporting back to their respective home offices, he could have reported “Made an angel be needlessly cruel to his best friend” in his ‘achievements’ column.

“I… I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and sucked his lower lip into his mouth to worry at it with his teeth. “You’re right, that was unnecessary.”

“I’ve never known you to be cruel before,” Crowley said tonelessly, and Aziraphale pressed his fingertips to his own mouth.

“Cruel? I suppose you’re right, I’m… my dear, I’m sorry-”

It was strange, standing here and deliberately avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley picked at his scarf, and sniffed faintly.

“It’s fine,” Crowley said abruptly, and made a downturned moue with his mouth, and shrugged vaguely to properly attempt to convey just how Perfectly Fine everything was.

“Besides!” Aziraphale said desperately. “We’re closer than most married couples! My point is, it doesn’t _matter_ if people make assumptions, and our friendship doesn’t mean any less for not being a marriage! We’re best friends, Crowley, we-”

“The best of friends,” Crowley said, and it sounded like an attempt at a joke, but it fell quite flat in the pained, tense atmosphere. A moth landed on the outside of the window and Crowley affixed his gaze to it. The whole building was quiet for a moment. Aziraphale turned, as though to find a chair to sit on, but as is the spirit of disagreement, as soon as he turned his back to Crowley he thought of something else to say.[7]

“I… can’t...Oh, Crowley, I can’t pretend to be different, I cannot pretend to be somebody who people don’t make assumptions about, and-”

“What in Go-Sat-someone’s name are you on about, angel?” Crowley asked, in a tired voice. Aziraphale put his hands on his hips in a worried, fussy sort of way.

“I expect that people see me,” Aziraphale began, and then stopped for a moment. He took a great big breath, and Crowley looked at him, wondering why he’d even needed air. “And simply...tend to realise that…”

“Realise what?” Crowley asked, uncertainly.

“Well.” Aziraphale said, and paused again, looking at Crowley with a hopeless, resigned kind of sadness that hurt Crowley’s heart to see. To see his closest friend so reduced to a distraught fretting man-shaped being, the guilt arose in Crowley again, rising upward like filling a glass. Unfortunately, this was precisely the wrong moment for Crowley to be absorbed in what was happening with his own emotions, as Aziraphale was pressing his fingertips to his eyes and swiping at them delicately, as though he was patting away tears. Luckily, it took him only a moment to realise, and he sighed and approached Aziraphale, offering him a handkerchief from his pocket, that previously hadn’t existed.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley said and Aziraphale sniffed. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You’re not making me sad,” Aziraphale said. “I rather think I did that all by myself.”

“Still,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale shook his head lightly, and neatly folded the handkerchief.

“If it’s any consolation, it’s a very human thing to be upset about this,” Crowley offered and Aziraphale gave him a watery smile.

“Oh, you are right, I suppose. It’s interesting, at the very least to know what all those songs and poems and books about unrequited love feels like, in a personal sense,” Aziraphale said.

There’s a certain phenomenon that exists where something so unexpected happens, that there are no words for it. The person it has happened to has no response, and more importantly, has no thoughts. Their brain simply ceases to process information for a moment, as though God Herself has briefly pulled the plug. The person in question usually looks almost comical at this point in time, and quite gormless. It’s usually not a flattering look. Immediately after this, the brain will usually kick back into gear and suddenly, things that have happened in the past will make a new kind of sense, and will resolve themselves in the light of new understanding. This, is exactly what has just happened to Crowley.

Aziraphale on the other hand, had simply been watching a play of emotions spread across Crowley’s face, first a strange blank confusion followed immediately by a visual exclamation.

“I had meant,” Crowley said, “That it is very human to have to deal with the emotional fallout of a friend having fallen in love with you.”

Aziraphale frowned at him for a moment, and then inhaled audibly.

“I had meant,” Crowley said again, but his voice had changed to something lower, and altogether more croaky and worried. “That I am in love with you.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, and for a moment, that was all he could say.

“Ah,” Crowley mouthed, and stared at him incredulously. They were rather close together, and Aziraphale smelled faintly of his new cologne, a fresh, grassy kind of scent that reminded Crowley of spring.

“I didn’t realise,” Aziraphale said weakly. Crowley shrugged.

There was another moment of silence, the weight of six thousand years settling over both of them like a thick blanket of snow.

“How long?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said breezily. “Around the late forties, I suppose.”

“The nineteen-forties, and you never _told m-_ ”

“1146,” Crowley said, in a small voice.

“What?”

“1146?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale blinked at him. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, or say something important, but then he closed it again, and stared at Crowley.

Something many humans don’t understand about eye contact is how very...intimate it is. Angels and demons do not usually engage in such prolonged nonverbal communication, simply because angels and demons do not usually have intimate relationships of any kind with any other being. Crowley and Aziraphale are both quite unique in this.

Being that eye contact between two creatures can be such an effective form of nonverbal communication, it can occasionally render speech unnecessary. In Crowley and Aziraphale’s history, eye contact could be used to indicate things such as “Drink?” or “That person’s looking a bit shifty,” or “Another drink?”, or “Oh dear, we seem to have stumbled into some apocalyptic situation, help”.

It had never previously meant precisely what it meant in this situation, which was “I would like to kiss you now,” followed by a beseeching response of “ _Please_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley struggles with This Sort of Thing.

Along with eye contact, physical contact was another form of communication was almost entirely avoided by demons. Certainly, many reputable demons carried an air of the traditional sins, but lust; frankly speaking, was not a usual accompaniment. 

Lust, you see, is so very human in its foibles, and one of the key components – or perhaps the most key component – requires physical contact. 

Demons, as a whole, quite dislike physical contact. Much like eye contact, physicality requires a certain kind of vulnerability. The Proper Sort of demons abhor vulnerability, for many obvious reasons, and other less obvious ones; such as the discomfort that is inherent in every sentient being with regard to the agonisingly revealing nature of closeness, and also the sensitive nature of boils.

Crowley, in this regard, is not the Proper Sort of demon one should be entitled to expect. He tried! He emitted an almost visible cloud of arrogance, which is next-door neighbours to pride, he preened with absolute vanity, he enjoyed sloth with the mindlessness only achievable during true depressive episodes(1). 

Unfortunately, the key difference between Crowley and the next demon, was that Crowley had to try. True evil is made up of a quite substantial amount of thoughtlessness. To achieve true demonic wickedness, one couldn’t have any degree of empathy. 

One also couldn’t enjoy flowers, or the snap of a fine layer of caramelized sugar atop a crème brulee, or the power of a good hot bath, and absolutely, most of all, a true Proper demonic entity could not, could never enjoy the warmth of a soft, pink angelic hand entwined with one’s own. This was where Crowley truly failed as a traditional demon.

When demons traditionally incite lust in humans, it is usually directed specifically at another human. When demons Tempt humans into adulterous, lustful sins, they usually ensure that one human is tempted towards another human. They do not seek it out themselves. This, is another function of demon life that Crowley has quite neglected to discover.

It was here, in this small corner café, balancing a hot cocoa, an espresso, and two cookies, like an overburdened waiter that Crowley ran into an old demonic acquaintance.

“Hullo, Crawley!” exclaimed Bierno, a fairly short demon with blindingly orange hair and a truly unfortunate tendency to spit when he talked. Crowley hadn’t seen him in millennia, but Hell invented the phenomenon of running into acquaintances while out in public and being forced to make polite conversation with them until the awkwardness climbs to an unbearable level.

“It’s Crowley, now,” Crowley said, carefully protecting the cookies from Bierno’s enthusiastic speech.

“Is it?” Bierno queried. He wore a painfully stylish three-piece suit and Crowley thought some very uncharitable thoughts very hard at him.

“It has been, for some time,” Crowley pointed out, but Bierno neatly steamrolled him. The waitress behind the counter waved him forward impatiently, but Bierno approached her cheerfully, rather yelling his order at her while conversing with Crowley.

“I had heard you were up here, and had always meant to track you down, see how things were – one flat white – but never got around to it, you know how it’s been, I’ve been away in America for yonks, carrying on His Treacherous work, y’know, oh wow, it’s been absolute – chocolate syrup on the top – millennia, Crawley, hasn’t it?” 

Bierno had invented a rather clever piece of nastiness, centuries ago, where one refuses to call a person by their chosen name, neatly invalidating them, and making them feel quite small, all in one fell swoop. He’d received a commendation for it. He was rather thrilled to be able to use it on Crowley, who he had never quite liked.

“Crowley,” Crowley said again, and Bierno tossed a few pounds on the countertop, just far enough from the waitress’ reach that she had to lean over to reach it.

“Is that-“ Bierno began, and Crowley stiffened. His eyes were affixed to an area over Crowley’s left shoulder, and he had a sneaking fear that he knew exactly who he was looking at. This fear congealed as he turned around to see Aziraphale comfortably sunken into the booth, awaiting Crowley’s return.

“Er,” Crowley said, his eyes darting rapidly between Bierno and Aziraphale. Excuses boiled in his mind, all equally useless, and his heart needlessly beat faster, and faster. The cocoa in his left hand tipped sideways, and only a minor miracle stopped it from falling. Aziraphale gave him a cheery wave.

“The angel, of course,” Bierno said. “I’d forgotten that you two were such… enemies. Lifelong nemeses.”

Crowley swallowed, and righted the cup of cocoa once more, which perilously upset the plate of cookies. “Eternal enemies,” he agreed. 

Aziraphale was watching them with a faintly narrowed eye, now, and Crowley desperately tried to telegraph the situation to him. “But of course, you’ve been practically underground for so long,” he rambled. “You’ve missed out on so much.”

Bierno made a noncommittal sort of noise, and Crowley looked around desperately for the waitress. All of a sudden, Bierno let out a loud, rough, and quite nasty laugh, and elbowed Crowley hard.

“I’m just taking the piss!” He bellowed, and Crowley made a desperate attempt to wrangle the baked goods into a more secure position in his arms. He made a deeply unflattering noise of confusion.

“Tempting an angel?” Bierno offered, big green eyes twinkling madly. “How positively diabolical.”

“Tempting an- er, that is to say- tempt….well, yes, yeah, rather,” Crowley dithered. Dithering was a truly terrible habit he had picked up from Aziraphale.

“Truly evil!” Bierno brayed and Crowley winced, surreptitiously covering the food and drinks, protecting them from Bierno’s spittle-flecked enthusiasm.

Aziraphale made a motion suddenly, as though he was about to get up and come over to See What All This Fuss Was, and Crowley growled in his throat, making a deeply unsubtle slashing motion with his hand. Looking terribly unconvinced, Aziraphale sat back down into the rich red couch uncertainly.

“Anyway, you caught me, Bielo,” Crowley said, with the breezy efficiency of someone’s who had quite enough.

“Bierno.”

“Whatever. You caught me! Following His Diabolical plan in corrupting an angel with,” he looked down at his arms. “Non-Fair Trade Belgian chocolate chips, y’know, and…” He cast his mind around desperately. The espresso tilted and threatened to burn him. “Milk from a sacred cow, and evil…mini marshmallows.”

The pink and white mini marshmallows found themselves rather offended. Bierno stared at him.

“I meant the other sort of Temptation,” he said after a long pause and Crowley, rather relieved at no longer having to think up false backgrounds for the foodstuffs in his hands leapt on this with relief.

“Oh, er, absolutely!” He nodded. “Absolutely, only, y’know, it takes some doing… to properly… well, Tempt an angel…”

Aziraphale was frowning outright, now, and still looked as though he had half a mind to go over and see what was going on.

Crowley’s mouth rather ran on without his express permission. “You must, erm, seduce them, rather, with…y’know, coax them outside the realms of divinity?”

Bierno was looking less and less convinced by the second, but thankfully, the waitress placed Bierno’s coffee on the countertop, with rather more violence than was strictly necessary, and the moment was broken. Crowley took the opportunity to escape back to the booth with Aziraphale, giving Bierno a jaunty nod.

He rushed into the booth with rather more aplomb than he perhaps should have, but it was such a deep relief to escape Bierno’s crude interrogation.

“What on earth-“ Aziraphale started, and Crowley slammed the cups and plate onto the table. Aziraphale began to reach for his cocoa automatically, and Crowley shot his hand out, clasping his wrist and stopping him.

“Don’t drink that, I can’t guarantee I avoided all the spittle,” he said, and Aziraphale released the mug with a look of disgust. Bierno stood at the little napkin-sugar-milk station beside the counter and stirred spoon after spoon of sugar into his tiny coffee, watching them. Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s wrist, running the tip of his finger down the soft skin, and stared back at Bierno. 

Here, as previously mentioned, is where Crowley goes wrong, in a very lucky way. As previously described, most demons Tempt other beings into scandalous affairs with their own kind – demons do not, as a rule, Tempt them into liaisons with themselves. Crowley however, is unaware of this, having been rather lazy about inspiring those kind of Temptations before. Before the End of the End of Days, Crowley had usually preferred to hang about in the occasional pub, and take credit for whatever licentious debauchery occurred there. 

Only a very specific kind of demon would ever Tempt something like an angel into a liaison with themselves, and this kind of demon was someone either very brave, very dangerous, or both. 

Therefore, to Crowley, with this stroking of Aziraphale’s wrist, he thinks that he is signalling _“Oh yes, look at me go, Tempting angels all over the place, aren’t I very evil”_ to Bierno. However, Bierno thinks he is signalling _“Oh yes, look at me, a demon who would risk it all just for the slim potential to destroy an angel, aren’t I very evil.”_ Bierno makes the abrupt decision that Actually, America Isn’t Quite So Bad, and perhaps it was time for a return, well away from angels and demons, and their dangerous ideas.

Aziraphale watches as the being at the drinks station appears to gain some kind of a fright, and whirls around to dash through the exit, leaving his drink behind.

“Would you like to explain, or should I guess?” Aziraphale says, rather tersely, and Crowley sighs in relief, watching the door flap back and forth in Bierno’s wake. He settles in to explain, before vanishing the previous foodstuffs, and replacing them.

“So, that’s why you were touching me?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley nods, dragging his spoon across the rim of his new cup.

“Yeah, why?” He asked, distractedly, searching for sugar. He dipped his spoon into the cup, tasting it.

“Well, I just rather thought,” Aziraphale began, with the kind of dignified air that Crowley had come to learn meant trouble. “That since we’re in love-“

Crowley choked abruptly, having half-swallowed the little teaspoon in his mouth. His coughs were embarrassingly loud, and lead to a nearby patron offering him a napkin, kindly. Aziraphale, clearly was not feeling so benevolent, since he waved her off.

“Oh, really, for goodness’ sake – since we are in love,” he began again, with a haughty tone, and Crowley put the spoon on the opposite side of the table. “We could do that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing?” Crowley echoed faintly, and Aziraphale nodded, looking rather pink around the edges, suddenly. “Oh!”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley carefully picked up his small cup, put it down on the saucer with a clink, and picked it back up again. “Unless-”

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked, and swallowed abruptly. Aziraphale, kindly, does a needlessly complicated gesture with a chunk of his cookie, and silence fell around their booth. With a glance, Crowley saw the people in the cafe still chattering endlessly, but he could no longer hear them, like a thick velvet curtain has been draped around himself and Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale leaned in, and Crowley automatically mirrored him. Unfortunately, it being that they were sharing one couch in a single booth that had seen better days, their combined weight upset the table, spilling Crowley’s espresso all over them both.

“Oh, bless it!” Crowley snapped, and grabbed his stupidly tiny cup, from where it had landed upside down on Aziraphale’s lap. He waved at it ineffectually, while Aziraphale frowned at the blackish stain spreading across his pale trousers. Crowley suddenly, inexplicably felt a swell of impossibly huge guilt settle on his shoulders, and he swallowed back a gasp. His eyes prickled, and he shoved his glasses further up his nose in irritation. 

“Crowley, it’s no problem, dearest-” Aziraphale started, but Crowley gestured at his clothes with disgust. 

“Look at you! I’ve ruined you!” Crowley started, and his eyes began to prickle again in a hot, uncomfortable way. Suddenly,with the kind of understanding that only arises from knowing someone for millennia, Aziraphale carefully grabbed Crowley’s waving hand and scowled at him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said firmly, and Crowley sniffed faintly. He waved a hand over the stain, and Crowley felt shyly touched by the simple gesture. Aziraphale preferred his things well-preserved, and in their natural state. Knowing he was willing to forever change the nature of his things just to appease Crowley was a heavy, heartbreaking kind of relief. Crowley kissed him, and interrupted the start of Aziraphale’s next sentence. 

Aziraphale let out a sound that was rather more pleased and ardent than Crowley had expected, and suddenly he was seized with a strange kind of euphoria, a passion that moved him to pull away, and press his forehead to Aziraphale’s. 

“Let’s go home,” Aziraphale decided, holding Crowley’s hand close to his chest. “Let’s go home, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In true Crowley fashion, one of his favourite sins turned out to barely be a sin at all. The evilness of sloth is intertwined with thoughtlessness, the true meaning of it is that in the face of some true horror, a thinking being remains action-less. Crowley’s version of sloth consists of taking a lot of naps, which is Not Actually All That Bad, all things considered.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale’s bookshop had found itself a touch surprised one morning when it discovered itself to hold a fully functioning flat upstairs, rather than the series of small box rooms that had been used for storage previously. However, property in London is surprisingly adept at keeping up with things. 

Once they had returned, Aziraphale had ushered Crowley upstairs with all the confidence of a man who knew he would not be told no. Aziraphale had gently pressed Crowley to sit on the end of the bed, and then took his face in his hands with determination and kissed him thoroughly. 

Crowley made some noise a moment later, and Aziraphale nodded at him and smiled delicately. 

“I know, you’re right, it’s so lovely,” he said, which Crowley thought, quite affectionately, was a bit cocky, as all he had actually said was _“mmmmmm”._

“What do you want, my love?” Aziraphale asked him, with the kind earnestness that always made Crowley feel so very fond of him. He shrugged in a carefree sort of way and then immediately reached up to touch Aziraphale’s hair. 

“‘Nother kiss’d be nice,” he said breezily and Aziraphale pouted at him. “Oh, I don’t know, angel, anything,” he said, and quite decided to finish the sentence there to spare his dignity, however his mouth did not agree and ran on without his permission. “...just, anything you want, angel, just touch me, let me touch you, whatever you want.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, the same present, dithering, delighted kind of smile that made Crowley’s fingertips itch to reach out. 

The feeling of clothes coming off was unique to both of them, Aziraphale rarely bothered to change, and Crowley usually simply erased them. The soft susurration of silk sliding off Crowley’s shoulders made his skin feel hot, alive. He carefully undid Aziraphale’s tiny buttons, decorative and cold compared to the warmth of his body. 

Aziraphale, Crowley very quickly learned, seemed quite agreeable, and intent to touch him everywhere. From the soft, hidden skin behind his knee, to the back of his neck, to the inward curve of his stomach, which hollowed out with sharp inhales, Aziraphale pressed gentle fingertips to, stroked, left kisses on. As Crowley shuddered, Aziraphale talked, and Crowley gasped for air he didn’t need. 

“Oh, my dearest, look at you,” Aziraphale marvelled, lovingly and Crowley trembled and threw his hands over his face, the backs of his hands covering his eyes. “I cannot believe I ever let this happen, look how absolutely… starved for touch you are, dearheart, I am so sorry…”

Crowley shuddered and reached up for Aziraphale, gripping onto his shoulders. Aziraphale planted a soft kiss over each of his cheekbones.

“Don’t be sorry,” he croaked, his fingers closing and opening over Aziraphale’s shoulders. The skin was soft, Aziraphale was soft, and solid and repeatedly pressing down on Crowley as though he couldn’t bear to be away from him for more than a few moments.

“Please,” Crowley said, quite without his brain’s permission. 

“I would… as, we, I wish to say-“ Aziraphale said, and stopped and said again, and Crowley blinked at him before understanding in one thrilled, fell swoop. 

“You want to fuck me!” He marvelled and watched happily as Aziraphale looked quite haughtily at him, even though the tips of his ears turned pink. 

“Only if you want that,” Aziraphale started and Crowley took his hand, his soft, pale, perfectly manicured hand that had passed bottles to him and pressed gifts towards him, and touched his arms, his hair, his face, and he gently eased it down and laid it lightly over his cock, achingly hard. 

“I do,” Crowley said, meaning to sound sultry, meaning to sound carefree and seductive and missing the mark so badly he landed embarrassingly close to earnest. 

It didn’t occur to Crowley to be uncomfortable, and so it wasn’t when Aziraphale stroked downward, light, gentle fingertips laying trails of slick fire along him. His fingers slipped inside, carefully, lovingly, and Crowley felt a strange kind of ache, a near unbearable emptiness all of a sudden. He gripped Aziraphale’s wrist and pushed, inhaling sharply at the sudden pressure of being filled. His thighs began to tremble lightly, and Aziraphale, sweet, kind-hearted, sly Aziraphale’s eyes darkened. 

“Please,” Crowley said quietly, and Aziraphale covered him with his own body, his right hand slipping between Crowley’s thighs, his left elbow supporting his own weight and wrapping into Crowley’s hair. He pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, and kissed him, and then pulled back only an inch, only enough to watch him. He gave Crowley a third finger, hot and gentle, and slick and satisfying, and Crowley could have wept with gratitude. 

“You are a wonder,” Aziraphale said, quietly and Crowley’s hands, hot and sweating from the grip he hand on Aziraphale’ hips, clenched tighter. He shut his eyes and Aziraphale stroked inside of him lovingly. Crowley pressed his ankles together, one over the other behind Aziraphale’s back, to hold him tightly, securely. 

“Now,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s eyes flick up to him in apparent disagreement, apparently perfectly content to sit here and watch Crowley come apart under him. “Now, or…” Crowley trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Aziraphale so he would get the idea. 

Aziraphale is, in many things, a hedonist. He swamps himself in sensation, the sounds of an early morning in the countryside, the smell of cocoa, the weight of a thick book, the taste of a treat. He has never really seen a point in ignoring these sensations, they are wholly human, and therefore they can’t really be all bad. 

In this, Aziraphale discovered, there really is something deeply gratifying is giving Crowley exactly what he wants. Better than any wine is the taste of his throat, more satisfying than the touch of silk is the hot, slick, clenching warmth of his body. 

Aziraphale watched beloved eyes roll back when he finds a spot to stroke, and he kissed a burning cheekbone when he gently eased another finger inside, and he listened to Crowley gasp, and hiss, and grow tighter around his fingers until he grabbed his shoulders roughly, and said _please, please_ so lovely, and desperate. 

“Well, that’s all you had to say, my dear,” said Aziraphale and got a dark look for his troubles. He smiled beatifically at him, and slipped his fingers out, holding high up on Crowley’s thigh. 

“Look at you,” Aziraphale said again, with genuine awe in his voice. He expected Crowley to snarl at him, or roll his eyes, but instead he whined, like some poor thing and reached for Aziraphale.  
Crowley’s hand, warm and slender wrapped around him, and stroked softly, touched him for the love of touching. Aziraphale grabbed him, wrapped long fingers around Crowley’s wrist and pulled him away, up to his mouth. He kissed the back of his hand gently, tenderly while he pressed forward, into Crowley slowly. 

Somewhere in the back of his dizzy mind, Crowley thought of a time in the future where Aziraphale might kiss his hand innocently, and he would be quite forced by the circumstances to bundle him off somewhere private and horizontal. 

Such thoughts were quickly driven out by the endless slow slide of Aziraphale into him, the way he pressed Crowley down, inescapable and loving, the feel of his soft skin, the firm weight of him, and his helplessly adoring face. 

Crowley could hear him, the catch of breath in his throat and he lifted his hips automatically, welcoming him in, his own legs tightening around Aziraphale. The slick pressure inside him, the feeling of Aziraphale’s hips, his skin soft and sweating lightly between Crowley’s thighs made his toes curl, and he gripped onto Aziraphale wherever his hands could settle. 

His trembling thighs, and sharp gasps, however, seemed to hit Aziraphale in an entirely different way, because he slowed, and made as though to stop. Crowley tightened his legs together, maintaining the rhythm himself. 

“Oh, dear- I’m… Am I hurting you?” Aziraphale fretted, and he slowed down again. Aziraphale, in his worry, tried to stop the roll of his hips even against Crowley’s insistent grind, but the angle he was at only forced him to slide slow and long against Crowley’s prostate, his cock slick and hard inside him. 

“I’m going to come,” Crowley gasped, gripped Aziraphale’s lower back, pulling him into him, greedily. Aziraphale’s eyes widened almost comically, but he didn’t stop, and he no longer let Crowley set the pace, he drove into him slower, deeper. With fresh knowledge in his mind, Aziraphale categorised Crowley’s expressions, up to the quick up-down of his chest as he panted, the swollen red of his lips, the dilated eyes, down to the slender thighs, dotted here and there with black scales like freckles, the pink wet cock leaking steadily against his stomach. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” chanted Crowley, and Aziraphale, overcome with some fresh new emotion, buried his face in Crowley’s throat. Crowley gripped him, fisting his hand in Aziraphale’s hair and dragging him closer. A winding, tight pleasure was building, not just in his pelvis, but throughout his body, like molten gold pouring through him, and Aziraphale bit him, digging his teeth into the soft pale juncture between Crowley’s throat and shoulder. 

Crowley keened under him, and Aziraphale slammed home, thighs tight around him and he watched Crowley shudder underneath him, breathless in his orgasm, his cock spilling in the tiny space between their bodies. Aziraphale gasped something that may have been Crowley’s name, or a swear and buried himself in welcoming, clenching tightness once more before he came. 

There was a bird of some kind outside the window, singing some cheerful drivel as Aziraphale tried and failed to catch his breath. Crowley lay beside him, the back of his hand thrown dramatically over his own face.

“I heard somewhere they only really sing to entice a mate,” Crowley said abruptly, and winced at the audible, gasping roughness in his own voice. “That bird’s just lookin’ for a shag, just out there yelling ‘someone come fuck this’, y’know.”

“That is _not_ true, you absolute fiend, they sing for the sheer joy of life,” Aziraphale said indignantly, offended on behalf of birds. Crowley turned his head to grin at him, only lifting his hand enough to peer over at him, and Aziraphale gazed at him. 

Still flushed pink, and breathing harder than normal, his eyes still dilated and affectionate, his thighs still red from where Aziraphale had gripped them, his come sliding down and pooling in the hollow dip just under his stomach. Aziraphale watched him, forgetting his indignation, and Crowley edged one hand out slowly, stealthily until his little finger grazed Aziraphale’s fingers, his eyes fixed on the little bird on the windowsill. 

“S’pose it doesn’t matter anyway,” Crowley said after a moment, still looking out the window, but Aziraphale could see the curve of his cheek, his hidden smile anyway. “May that’s just part of the sheer joy of his life, anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] However, it is imperative to note that demons can manifest as many fingers as they may wish for in any moment in time, so this saying is not quite as useful as it would have been to either you, or I - assuming you are human, and not a multi-phalanged occult being.
> 
> [2] There is a human turn of phrase that suggests that drunken people tend to reveal deep truths about themselves that they would not reveal when sober. This is occasionally true. More frequently, it is wildly untrue, as some drunks merely reveal such intimate details as; the time they were offered a position as a Harvard professor, but had to decline, as having such a stunningly attractive professor would have distracted devoted students, or the time they wrote the Next Great American Novel, or most frequently of all, the intimate secret that mixing a great deal of wine with various liquors results in an astoundingly huge amount of vomit.
> 
> [3] Crowley had always been rather excellent at sneering, however he was finding it a bit difficult nowadays. After the End of the End of Times, Crowley had found himself with a perpetually cheerful, if fussy, best friend, a fully refurbished Bentley, and most troubling of all, a young Adam who insisted on calling him and Aziraphale weekly, to update them on his life. Mr and Mrs Young had been quite surprised to realise they had named both Crowley and Aziraphale as Adam’s godfathers, years ago, since neither of them knew them, but after a bit, as most things that Adam decided, they simply forgot it had ever been any other way.
> 
> [4] This, in and of itself was quite unusual, as neither Crowley, nor Aziraphale customarily obeyed the rules of the road. Crowley simply ignored them, while Aziraphale usually made a cursory attempt at obeying them, until inevitably growing bored and following Crowley.
> 
> [5] It was a blackbird.
> 
> [6] He was right, only insofar as blackbirds, pigeons, and seagulls are all quite different birds.
> 
> [7] The French call this phenomenon l'esprit de l'escalier. The English call it “Oh, I should have said that to the bastard! That would have showed them!”


End file.
